


A Book of Verses Underneath the Bough

by Arenal



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Children of Characters, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 08:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14997206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arenal/pseuds/Arenal
Summary: For ScotSwap 2018 (for Christine/languish-locked-in-l). Christian and Philippa are best friends and have adorable children. This fandom deserves some damn fluff. Sorry it's late!





	A Book of Verses Underneath the Bough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Languish_Locked_in_L](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languish_Locked_in_L/gifts).



 

A Book of Verses Underneath the Bough

 

Laughter like lark song trickled through the trees, announcing the imminent arrival of some charming forest nymph.

It was not wholly a disappointment when, instead, a child burst through the verdure—plainly human, though no less lovely, nor any less dirt-splashed, than any dryad might have been. Fast on her heels, another girl and a boy, both around her own age, tumbled through the brush into the expansive garden at Stirling.

“Mama, I won!” Elisa piped. At six years old, she was as golden-headed as her father and older brother, and her voice already promised as much melody. “Although Sander and Bridget did a good job too,” she added, with a sweetly conspicuous effort to remember her manners.

“You won because you have no care for your clothing,” Philippa Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny said indulgently. “Not that you must, for adventure is surely worth a ruined dress, but you might at the very least have considered that the luggage is with your father’s party, and he will not be here for another day.”

“That’s all right,” Christian Erskine laughed. “Bridget’s clothes should fit her; Elisa can borrow something. They’ll both outgrow their entire wardrobes soon.”

Another pair of heads emerged, both distinctively trying to maintain some pride despite their haloes of twigs and wild daises. Kevin Crawford, the young Master of Culter, had a day off from his duties as squire for Tom Erskine. He probably would not have liked to spend it watching over his young cousin and the little Erskine twins, were it not for the very agreeable presence of Theodora, the eldest of the Erskine offspring. Kevin and Theodora were within a year of age to each other, and Kevin was keenly aware of Theodora’s care for the twins. And certain types of care superseded the demands of the dignity of the heir to the Culter barony. Such care might include, for example, permitting the three children to crown their elders in the wild bounty of the meadow.

So Theodora wore a coronet bestowed upon her by the Crawford and Erskine dryads, and Kevin, hoping to impress his kind and loving nature upon her, submitted to one as well. His aunt privately thought that it was good for him to learn some levity, no matter how bad he was at hiding his initial discomfort. He was certainly more relaxed than he had been upon first meeting Theodora, who was well-trained by a clever mother to deliver quick replies. Kevin, as stolid as his lord father, had at least accepted her wit gracefully.

“Look, Mama, they have crowns!” Alexander chirped, his voice still as bright and high as his sister’s.

“Watch that you don’t make the queen jealous if she should ever visit Stirling,” Christian said. “It’s not polite to upstage royal gems with wildflowers. Thea, love, the goslings need to be fed. I told the kitchens earlier to be prepared for a gaggle of young appetites.”

“Come on, goslings,” Theodora said, ushering away Elisa, Alexander, and Bridget. “Lise, you must put on one of Bridget’s dresses before you eat; the mistress of the kitchens doesn’t want your mud all over her clean flagstones.”

“But I am hungry, and you are the mistress of the mistress of the kitchens and can tell her she mustn’t be angry with me!” Elisa sang.

“Don’t be silly, Larkin,” Philippa said, ruffling her daughter’s sunny waves. “Of all those who serve you, the first one to avoid angering at all costs is the master or mistress of your kitchen.”

“They can poison your food!” Alexander crowed, as if delighted to bring this information to his cousins.

“Unlikely, but they can cook it very badly,” Philippa said dryly. “Or they can serve only cabbage for every meal!”

The children squawked with horror and Elisa promised to put on a clean dress as Theodora and Kevin led them inside.

Christian clicked her tongue happily as the two ladies resumed their walk around the garden. Two heads, one chestnut and one dark red, vied with the roses for richness of shade. “They’re certainly keeping Kevin on his toes. It’ll be good for him; what a serious lad.”

“Yes, and now that his youngest sister is just beginning to toddle about, he needs the practice,” Philippa said. “That house will be full of sharp Irish ladies, every one of them bright and black-haired. I could almost feel sorry for Richard and Kevin.”

“Don’t feel sorry for Richard; he had Francis to practice on,” Christian said. “If he doesn’t know how to handle difficult relations by now, he’s past help.”

“Does anyone really know how to _handle_ Francis?” Philippa said. “The most you can do is manage him, really.”

She’d been prepared to combat her jealousy when she and Lymond had first arrived here, and she’d met Christian. Christian was an old friend of Lymond’s, a childhood playmate, and had greeted him so joyously that Philippa at first wondered if there had been something between Lymond and Christian that Lymond had not told her. But it had been a pleasant shock to Philippa to realize that Lymond’s mutual depth of affection with Christian was far from romantic—the man who had been expelled from Scotland and returned cold and bitter and seemingly at odds with all of mankind had somehow made the closest of fraternal bonds during the time of his youthful misadventures in Scotland. Christian was plainly in love with her husband Tom Erskine, but this only child, adopted by the Flemings, had found a brother in a cynical outlaw. Even stranger, the cynical outlaw had been wrongfully charged with a betrayal of Scotland that had led to the death of his younger sister, and yet found a new sister in the blind musician of Boghall.

That realization had led to a brief and different bout of jealousy on Philippa’s part, before she realized the best part of it all.

Christian Erskine was, in fact, a delight.

It was easy to see why Lymond loved her; she was witty and graceful and understood poetry and music and literature just as he did. But Philippa loved her for yet another reason: they both, alone in the world save for Sybilla (and perhaps one other woman, golden-haired and seaborne), perfectly understood Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny.

“Francis is a great help in teaching the children sometimes, although occasionally I wish he’d be a little more reasonable about the verses he sings them,” Christian said. “But Tom was never a terribly good fighter, and I did want the children to learn how to box. Francis was happy to teach them, but he thought it was funny when Bridget bloodied Sander’s nose, and Tom didn’t agree.”

“Oh yes, he’s already trimmed a branch for Larkin to use as a practice sword,” Philippa said. “She loves it. She doesn’t have breath control yet, but that will come with time. I gave her a poem she can recite while she practices to—”

Christian broke her stride with laughter. “You are incorrigible. You are not allowed to complain about Francis teaching Elisa to be a whirlwind if you encourage her the same.”

“Oh yes, and you can talk, when you are _entirely_ at fault for your children boxing each other.”

Christian shook her head. “Francis would have taught them in any case. It was simply a matter of whether I gave my blessing or pretended not to know. And you’ll face the same soon enough. Have you yet chosen a name for the next young Crawford?”

Philippa rested a hand on her lunar belly. “If it’s a girl, Isabel, for Sybilla’s mother.” She paused, and then, softer: “If it’s a boy, Gideon, for my father.”

“Both lovely choices,” Christian affirmed, smiling gently.

Suddenly, from the other side of a rosebush, a musical voice: “My dear, do not reveal all our affairs to Christian. Look at the mischief in her face. She only intends to steal all that I love. There are certain papers you must hide—”

Christian almost doubled over with laughter as the lithe, golden figure of Francis Crawford slipped into their path. “You might have announced yourself, Francis. How did you get in the garden without anyone telling us?”

“I won’t tell you which servants I bribed, because I promised to ensure their continued employment. Letting them announce me would spoil the fun,” Lymond responded. “And besides, I knew that if I were announced, my lady wife would have time to plan exactly how she would scold me for abandoning the luggage to the uncertain care of Danny and the rest of the party, particularly as Elisa is sure to have ruined her dress by now and I should have brought an extra for appeasement. But now, Philippa can have no time to form her protestations.” His mischievous smile improved the entire garden.

“Yes, yes. She’s wearing one of Bridget’s,” Philippa said, going to her husband to kiss him. “How are you?”

Lymond enfolded her in his arms. “Bring me a book of verses, a jug of wine, and—”

“A loaf of bread,” Philippa finished.

Christian smiled. “You shall have it.”

_Oh, wilderness were paradise enough!_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Note to clarify the children’s names: Sander is a nickname for Alexander; Lise and Larkin are nicknames for Elisa. (Elisa is named for Lymond’s younger sister, Eloise.)
> 
> Note to clarify the setting: Everything in this AU is the same as in the books except for 1) Christian lived and had children with Tom (and as a result, Lymond is a *little* bit less traumatized and self-destructive, although that doesn’t actually come up), and 2) this takes place within in Pirate Queen Marthe AU, because everything should take place within the Pirate Queen Marthe AU (but that also doesn’t come up…mostly). 
> 
> Note to clarify the lines at the end: They’re from the Rubaiyat, which was probably actually written in the 1800s, but is attributed to a Persian poet in the 1000s, so I’m just choosing to use the attribution as truth because there’s a lot in there that reminds me of what Lymond might quote.
> 
> Also, don’t worry about Kuzum. He doesn’t turn up because I’d be too tempted to make a definitive statement about his parentage but he’s fine.


End file.
